


Dying is not an excuse

by lady_in_aquamarine



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Multi, Not beta we die like Sunset Curve, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:55:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29962608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_in_aquamarine/pseuds/lady_in_aquamarine
Summary: - Hello, doctor Monroe, it's Carrie Wilson. I think I'm having another manic episode. I haven't slept for three days, and now I'm seeing things. Can I have an appointment tomorrow... I mean today?She hangs up and eyes her "guests" one more time. She can handle it.- Listen!- Shut up... Whatever you are, you can't be Sunset Curve. I know how they looked like when they died. Bunch of teenagers and you're like... walking sex.- Wow...- If you're ghosts I was warned about, just let me be. If you're in my head, I'll get my pills tomorrow.
Kudos: 8





	Dying is not an excuse

_Are you ready to jump?_

_Get ready to jump_

_Don't ever look back, oh baby._

The voice pushing everyone to commit suicide is a bit too loud, but Carrie doesn't want to turn the music's volume down because if she does so - the real world will get on her heels, and she needs those three-and-something minutes to function for the other twenty-three hours and fifty minutes. She is dancing on the edge of the roof with her eyes closed and her feet moving on complete muscle memory and nothing else. The warm light of the setting sun is touching her skin, and it feels like featherlight kisses: enough to perceive but not enough to leave a mark.

One step brings her closer to falling; the other saves her. Carrie almost believes that if she walks off, she will fly. She hears the sound of plumes ruffling; she knows that her wings are there, growing from her shoulder blades. 

But she also is quite aware that it's just an illusion. Carrie knows the difference between what she wants and what she has. And she doesn't actually have wings of any type. 

If she jumps off, she will not touch the clouds that look now a lot like strawberry-flavored cotton candy with her hands, no. She will fall all the twelve meters and land on standard roses. It will be such a pity if her body ruins the result of their gardener's years of hard work because she's so weak. She ought to be staunch, if not for herself, then for her father. 

\- Are you ready to jump? - asks her Madonna once again when the chorus starts, and the answer is not-so-confident no. It is more of maybe-next-time though Carrie doesn't admit it out loud. She watches down with no fear. Everyone will be dead someday, but every day's decision to stay alive gives her illusory control.

The shuffle of the feet breaking through the music makes Carrie turn around, just to see that her dad is standing there and watching. How long has he been there? Probably, not so long because his face does not look concerned. She pulls out her Air Pods.

\- Hey, Siri, pause. 

The music stops, but the silence is heavy. Carrie knows where her father has been, but she's not sure she's ready for the news. Yet she asks: "How's she?"

The man sighs; there is a great tension in his shoulders. 

"Still more in her own world than in ours." 

"No changes?"

"No changes. I'm sorry, babe, no miracle for your tomorrow's birthday. "

"I don't believe in miracles, not after..." Carrie just waves herself off. Lots of things have happened in these latter days, and it's hard to choose one reason. 

"Yet we hope for one," he sits on the edge of the roof, and taps on the spare space next to him, silently asking her to stay. And Carrie does as she's been told. She sits next to her father, her legs hanging in the air, and puts her head on his shoulder. The view is breathtaking but taken for granted. It is one of those typical Californian sunsets: almost clear, more or less maroon at the horizon, passing with exquisite gradations of tint through yellows to vibrant sangria and wines at the zenith to eggplant and blackberry on the east. The sun is drowning in the sea, merging into the twilight, ends with it. They watch the day fade away, turning into a chilly evening, when starting from the east, the dismal sky of approaching night overarches the colorful silk. 

It takes her dad almost half of hour before he speaks again. But first, he kisses her hair and deeply inhales the scent coming from it. There is more hidden pain in that single action than in all his songs. Songs are a public thing, and the facade should always be attractive. Nobody is allowed to look through the curtains. 

"And how are you doing? Honest answers only!"

"A bit down. " Carrie shrugs and, outpacing the next question, adds," But not needing-another-round-of-pills down."

"Planning to throw out the great party tomorrow? You know, I can disappear until the early morning for you and your friends to feel comfortable."

"Honestly, no... It doesn't seem right to party."

She lifts her head, checking him out, but her father's face still has one of his absentminded fake smiles when he shakes his head in disapproval. 

"But you're are turning sixteen!"

"So what? It's just a number."

Her words are greeted by silence. Carrie manages to count to ten in her head, waiting for him to say something. 

"Well, then what's your plan?" He finally asks.

"Can I skip school tomorrow?"

"Of course, but..."

"Don't make it a harmful habit..." she finishes his sentence. Carrie has heard these words a dozen times. That's some sort of her father's life philosophy, like Hakuna Matata for Timon and Pumba. Life is too short for waiting for things to be done and hesitations. And it's the actual reason why she has got a tattoo for her tenth birthday. Carrie wishes her father was stricter sometimes, as she hardly can find the borders. She's allowed to do whatever she wants. Surprisingly, it's not that awesome as anybody thinks. Carrie tugs her bottom lip with her teeth as she doesn't like where her thoughts are going.

"I just want to skate around the city for the whole day."

"Do what makes you happy."

"You're are the coolest dad ever."

"No, I'm not." He says. "I'm just a dad that remembers how it feels - being a teenager. Desperately longing for unconditional love and the ability to dance to his own beat."

"And now the whole world dances to your Lollipop lips." She teases. Carrie herself hates this song. It's misogynic and shallow, but people seem to like the catchy tune. And by like meant turning it into a double-platinum single.

"Yeah... One day they all gonna dance to your song too... Look!"

He is pointing at the falling star. "Make a wish, girl!"

Carrie doesn't want to say out loud that's making a wish on burning to dust in atmosphere rock is stupid. So, she obediently closes her eyes. Her head is empty - no thoughts. What might she wish for? She doesn't want anything, as she already has everything, except... No, she has that too. So, no covet, just making her father a bit better and indulging his whims. 

When Carrie opens her eyes again - the falling star is already gone, has burned for good, but finally, she sees her father's face and not the mask he usually wears.

"It's getting cold. Fancy to get inside and get some coffee?"

"With pepper?"

"As you wish, young lady..."

And when she watches her father having another fight with a too-clever coffee machine, Carrie thinks that she must have won the lottery at the skies. And then not, when on her sixteen birthday she wakes up in a completely empty house. 

"Have a nice B-day!" says a green heart-shaped sticker on the mirror in her bathroom. Father again has intruded on her territory. 

"That's my party, and I'll cry if I want to..." Carrie unsticks the note from the frame - thanks a lot for not gluing it on the glass - it goes to the diary. She carefully fills in the usual table. Mood... let's say it's still four out of ten. Sleep? She checks the phone. She was scrolling Twitter until three am. So. Six hours. Not bad for her. Carrie washes her face, brushes her hair until every individual strand knows its place, puts on her black eyeliner, and ignoring the breakfast heads outside. Maps kindly report to her that it will take around three hours to get from Malibu to the Hollywood sign, then she can make some turnaround and maybe skate to Santa Clarita if she has enough strength in her till that time. It sounds like a plan that includes sorbet and French fries from Arby's. The weather is nice, so what can possibly go wrong?

The universe has been laughing hard at the most naive girl. 

Carrie has forgotten to charge her power bank, and she hasn't realized it until it was too late. She has been listening to Ariana Grande, and then her phone just said bye-bye and died, leaving her in the middle of nowhere without good music (bearable) and map (unbearable, as she has turned too many times wherever her feet were taking her). 

"Oh damn!" Carrie mutters underneath her breath. The screen is jet black, and now her iPhone is not more functional than a rock. In any other situation, she would have asked someone for directions. She's not mute, after all. Unfortunately, she is in such a residential area that, in the late afternoon, the streets are completely empty. With the sun up in the zenith, all the scenery looks like a set for a post-apocalyptic movie. 

"Ok, according to Benedict Cumberbatch, playing Sherlock, average man's visual matters is only 62 percent accurate, so I need to concentrate. " She tells herself, but her memory travels away from the map to the facial features of the man that is old enough to be her father (technically, he is two years older than her dad, but her dad looks a lot worse than a certain _married_ British actor), she doesn't have a crush on. Carrie is daydreaming that bad that she has to slap herself once or twice before she can think straight again. " Focus, nobody can save you, but you! You turned left from Sunset boulevard, then right, then right once again... Then... Hey! Watch where you skate!"

Carrie is sure, an inch closer, and that sneakerhead would have knocked her down. Without a closer look, his trajectory even appears to be going right through her. She's so ticked off; it takes her a long second to understand that she can actually ask that youngster the road. Carrie tries to call him out, but the tie-dye shirt keeps getting farther and farther from her at some supernatural speed. The skater doesn't turn around or show in some other way that he has heard her.

Carrie's been skating for years and never have ever met a skater that wasn't nice to another member of the community. Some pricks with egomania should not be count. Maybe he's not rude, but just wearing headphones under his helmet. That's the usual, though not a safe practice, so she decides to chase him without any second thought. But their levels of skill are not comparable: the stranger is a hundred percent pro. Carrie has stopped thinking of herself as a beginner a long time ago, but now she has a feeling: she's a turtle that is trying to chase a cheetah. 

Yet she follows him for a couple of blocks before the skater disappears from the view. Eventually, he turns around the corner, and when Carrie turns left, too, he's gone. And she finds herself in big trouble. The street goes down the hill, and the slope is steep. She tries to break with her left foot, but the friction is not enough, and the pavement is too narrow for a slide stop, and she's losing control and panicking and doing all wrongs. It all ends with her smashing into someone's garbage cans.

Pain comes the long way round. At first, Carrie thinks that it must really hurt, though she's wearing helmet and knee pads, and only then she actually feels it. But at least she's not bleeding or hasn't broken something. That's pretty good, actually, as pain may drive you into shock that could prove fatal. But she doesn't have enough courage to stand up immediately and continue her way, so she sits on the pavement and lets herself cry a little. Falling that bad is a good reason. She usually feels helpless if she does not know what her crying is all about, but now Carrie knows it's about bruises and a severe scratch on her left thigh. So, she is impressed that she is not weeping more. The tears stop fast and turn into ugly sobbing until she was finally spent. At least she doesn't feel any more as if someone is trying to choke her. 

Carrie sits right there for almost an hour on an empty street, picking herself up and staring in one place before she sees the same tie-dye shirt approaching her. But this time, he stops. 

"Hey sis, are you ok? "

The man waves his hand before her eyes, checking god knows what. Carries can't help but smile.

"Yeah, just chilling."

"Sure?" 

"No... I've just closet cosplayed alley cat." 

She waves at the mess she's made, and then the stranger drops himself next to her and spreads his legs. 

"I guess that, Kitty. I'm Willie, by the way."

"Carrie."

"I haven't seen you around. A new one?"

"Sorta... Exploring new locations."

He eyes her for a moment, head to toes, but it's a decent and somehow respectful scrutinize. 

"So, the refined selfie girl type."

"Hey!"

"All about the style, but not comfort. Expensive hardly used board, a dress, no gloves but and a knee-length gauze scarf. No offense, but what rich romantic country are you from if you think it's a good outfit for skateboarding?"

"Malibu." 

"That's hella far from here."

"I know. I've lost the direction."

"You know, I have to warn you that Gilbert drive is a road for no beginner!"

"I'm not a beginner!"

"Then prove it. There is a ten-step ladder down here. I swear you wouldn't be able to slide down the railing."

Willie jumps on his feet in one swift move, and she has no other option except to do the same. It hurts to move, but Carrie just longs to wipe off this smug of her new acquaintance's face, so she ignores her body's screams. 

In the morning, Carrie knows she will find herself all covered in purple bruises and not capable of getting out of bed without a moan. But for now, she is back in the game.

"You want a bet?" Carrie readjusts her pads and puts her scarf in the backpack - at least it's not a pink and glittery one, as most of her belongings, but a plush Pikachu, and then just shows off by flipping her skate back on its wheels with her shoe toe before jumping on it. She hisses as she feels the sudden twinge in her left thigh, but it's not as bad as it might have been. She can do it. 

"I'll show the way!" Willie winks at her and then speeds up. It's really arduous to follow him, as she doesn't know the surroundings, and he obviously does, but he looks over his shoulder once or twice to check on her. 

"Keep the distance, just in case..." He says, and then there is another turn around the corner. Finally, the said ladder is in view, and Carrie feels panic rising in her chest. It's not the type of ladder she has expected. The handrails are too high, and there is a missing part, so if the speed before the jump is not enough, you'll land face down the concrete. But Willie slides down them like it's a piece of cake, and she just can't say that she can't do this. Deep breath and jump. One, two, three. Now! Carrie feels how the wheels hit the ground and simply bends her knees. Only then she's able to realize that the loud scream she has heard was her own or that she's actually done it.

"You're quite a banshee!" Willie says when she stops next to him, he looks amused, and maybe there is a sparkle of friendly envy in his eyes. 

"Don't say it to my boyfriend." 

He zips his mouth and laughs.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes. Thanks for making me stand up. I literally could not make myself do it."

"You're welcome!"

"That's was cool, like cool-cool." She puts off her helmet, her hair is a complete mess, and Carrie fans herself with her hands. Blood is still singing from adrenaline, and there is a bright smile on her face, covered with makeup smudges. "Wish we've put it on camera, but..."

"Yea, but it's impossible." A strange shadow crosses Willie's face, but it's gone in a second when he changes the subject. "You said that you've got lost, so which way were you going?" 

"Santa Clarita." 

"Let me get one thing clear. You were planning to get from Malibu to Santa Clarita and then back... on a skateboard?"

"Yes?" Carrie's answer sounds like a squeak. Now said out loud by someone, her plan sounds insane, and she really questions it. That's at least a hundred miles with climbing Hollywood hills and skating along the highways. Her therapist would be pissed off. She says: "No, doctor Monroe, I'm not suicidal," and then does this: she dances on the roof edges and almost jumps under the cars. But what Willie says is different from what she has imagined he would say. 

"Need a company? "

Carrie shrugs.

"Why not... Just don't make me slide anything again. "

"If you say so... Well, North Hollywood is that way." He waves in a completely different direction than she would have taken. And Carrie is not sure if he's lying or not. He's a stranger. And not trusting strangers is an ABC, but he's got such a bright smile. Pretty people can't be mean, can they?

"And by the way, if I'm bothering you or something, just tell me to fuck off. Ok, Kitty?"

"Ok." She puts her helmet back. Well, if he kills her at the end of this story... "No way, Carrie. Stop it," she tells herself. She's just making a new friend like a high schooler she is. Well, Willie seems like a one from a sophomore year of college, but it doesn't really matter. She already knows some college students. All you need to care about around them is to watch out for what you're drinking. 

Carrie has skated around LA many times, but she never so completely felt the city's immense size. Headphones and maps app always have made her feel secure. She was going wherever she likes, picking a street of her choice. Carrie always knew that by making one phone call, she will get home safe and sound. But with no mobile working, she can rely only on herself. Now all the streets are quiet but not dreary. They are not just the way, a road with a moving picture background, but a participant of the creation. Carrie doesn't know what creates right now because it's not a new song in her head but a symphony. And she fishes the notes out the smells of the street that is rising. The fresh smell of the gasoline and the roofing felt, and poisonous street food when they roll into Hollywood Boulevard from a completely empty road. Noises are there too, bits of someone's conversations, just scraps, a mixture of English with other languages spoken by tons of tourists. She waves at a Chinese couple with a toddler in a sling, and they wave back at her.

She and Willie don't speak much, staying in the comfortable silence that breaks only when something interesting catches the eye, each of them entertained by their own thoughts, wrapped in the soft glow of them. The sun is light as canary-yellow paint splashed over everything, an unquenchable joy. And the road keeps rolling and rolling, with passing by the Universal Studios, but Santa Clarita stays out of reach, as around six, the sun sinks enough to interfere with visibility, so they ought to turn back before it becomes dangerous to skate without reflective strips. 

Willie awkwardly jokes that death comes only once, but Carrie thinks it's cute, though absolutely reckless. They cruise down one of the streets she has never thought it's possible to skate (the speed is a bit too much to feel confident, but Carrie has everything under control) when she sees it- the bright red sign that says: "Open house." 

What girl can say no to legally getting into someone's house? It's like playing Sims but in real life. You go there and pretend that you actually want to have this one. Of course, realtors are never fond of teenagers that hang out in their houses. But some of them have been grateful to her when she told them about some problems she has found. For example, if she has seen mold in the attic or if the pipes are about to blow up. Once, the floor in the upper bedroom felt for her like quicksand because termites were everywhere. She stops next to the driveway fighting the temptation. Willie skips to the next house but then returns. 

"They're selling it. It's so sad." 

"You used to know the owners?"

Carrie shakes her head as her eyes travel from green windowsills to the

heavy tree-tops, to the two roofs with black tiles, to the very big compared to the house garage doors that seem to be white underneath all that sprayed graffiti made with surprisingly aesthetically pleasing lavender and gold of the spring sunset colors of paint. It's someone's tag and, assuredly, an act of vandalism, but it fits.

"No. But the house is sad. Just look at it: squeezed between the others with all those trees blocking the light. There are oil spots on the driveway. The paint on the porch is flaking. And what's with the window on the second floor? Plywood instead of glass? The roof, though, doesn't seem to be leaking, well, for now. I want to have a closer look."

"I don't think it's the right time..." 

"The sun sat around an hour ago. The sign says there are open until eight pm. Come on, ghosting around someone's houses is my second favorite thing."

"And what's the first?"

"Singing."

Carrie picks up her skate as she heads to the door. Willie tries to stop her, but his fingers catch only the air. The stairs creak under her weight, and it means that the porch is in a way worse condition than it looks. When Carrie looks over the shoulder, Willie, that is still standing at the lowest rung, looks horrified, staring at his palm as he just touched fire. He mumbles something too, but all she catches is "lifer" and "not possible."

"I just remembered that I've promised a friend to help with rearranging the furniture. Gotta go." He hastily apologizes when he notices her looking at him, and then he drops his skate and hurries away. Willie is evidently lying, but it's her fault. God only knows what he has just thought of her. Maybe for him, she has just appeared as one of those crazy girls that grab a man that they just met and head to Vegas for getting married. 

But for now, Carrie doesn't think about it. She firmly knocks on the door and waits for permission to come in.

The person who opens it is a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair and a huge smile. She's dressed to the nines - up to today's fashion, but she's so bright herself that it doesn't look like she's ostentatiously doing it. Some people are just like this, always on the crest of the wave, with no visible effort. Carrie wishes it was that way for her too. Usually, she's trying so much, doing so much, and yet never enough. 

At that moment, with them facing one another with a threshold in between, Carrie urgently feels how she looks in her wrinkled clothing, dressed for skating, but not for paying any kind of official visits. The woman's smile also dims, becomes a friendly one instead of almost happy. 

"I do apologize for my appearance. I've taken a tumble on my way here. Is it still possible to have a look at the house? Or it's better to come the other day?" There's no second chance to make a first impression, so Carrie decides to ante up on politeness.

Surprisingly it helps. The woman lets her inside, introducing herself as Diana. But maybe the actual reason she does so is that small pendant Carrie is wearing. It looks simple, like something from imitation jewelry, but it's actually a carved white pearl with gem including, and if someone knows how much it costs, then she knows. 

Carrie is not taken aback that the house inside has just slightly a better condition than outside. It's an old building with wooden floors, a rather uncomfortable open dining nook, and a dark living room with visible rafters. Tiles in the kitchen have lots of cracks. Water pressure in the tap is so terrible, it screams about bad rusty pipes that need changing. She also immediately found a hole in the wall made by mice, and she wasn't even looking for it. 

The list of problems is infinite, but somehow the atmosphere inside is different from all the houses Carrie has visited throughout her life. It feels like she belongs here as if she has always lived here, but Carrie could swear she never had ever been here.

She folds the offered leaflet in half and puts it in her backpack carefully without actually reading it. But something just makes her ask one question after the other. Year of construction, rules of homeowners' association, how much is the yearly charge - Carrie even writes the answers down to the astonishment of Diana. Although writing doesn't mean she's looking for a house. Carrie is almost honest with the agent. She says that she just inquiries about the price of her dream. So, she won't make any offer. But the realtor seems completely despaired, patiently telling everything during a small tour around the house to a slightly potential buyer. 

Carrie knows that the lots in this area are not cheap, so even its condition doesn't explain why the owners ask so little for this one. "Something is wrong here," Carrie thinks, then she finally leaves. It's dark outside, and the road back to Malibu is still long. Now when she's not jacked up on adrenaline from the competition with another skater, her left thigh hurts so much that she'll need to take some painkillers for being able to sleep. Carrie skates down the hill, and at the intersection, she turns around the shoulder. The house looks like a lighthouse with the yellow light coming out of the windows. Maybe, she should write a song about it when she comes home. 

But as usual, when it comes to music, Carrie has no self-control, though she gets home late in the evening. One song turns into writing seven versions of what she calls _Lighthouse_ , then somehow her brain slips, and she scribbles _Gone with the wind_ , clearly inspired by her today's long-haired company, and not the novel by Margaret Mitchell on the other page in ten minutes. Then goes another one, it has no official name yet, but Carrie thinks it can become an entering chat song, given to the right voice as soon as she comes up with the last third of it. 

"I'll dream you!" not high enough, she strikes another chord.

"I'll dream you!" still doesn't belong here, another. Carrie goes up and up, repeating the phrase until she hits G6. It's more of a scream, too much for her already tired voice. She sounds hoarse, but if she drops her work to get some rest, the song will become one of those many unfinished she has in her folders. For her, it's always now or never.

"Aren't you supposed to be dreaming? It's four am, babe." How on earth is her father capable of sneaking up unnoticed? Carrie puts her hand on her heart just to be sure that it hasn't left her chest. She shifts on the barstool she has brought to the home studio and pauses recording. 

"One more take. It's almost done." 

"Carrie, dear, please stop forcing your voice like this. You sound husky. And what's with your hands?" he takes a step closer and grabs her right hand, covered with patches. One of the guitar strings got broken, leaving a deep cut on the inner side of her palm. It happened almost at the very beginning, so she has forgotten about it. Carrie watches how her father inspects her hand before he kisses it right in the center. He's tipsy: he reeks of whiskey and peppermint bubblegum with which he has tried to hide the smell of alcohol.

Carrie shivers.

"I like how it sounds. A little bit filthy."

He smiles, but it's a sad smile.

"I know you are entering that phase of your life when you're going to become a chaotic promiscuous disaster, but for my sanity, babe, don't flirt with your own father."

"I'm not flirting with you!"

"Yes, you are." 

She hits him on the shoulder in embarrassment. Father is right, as always, but it doesn't mean that Carrie wants to admit it. 

"You're drunk!" 

"Not that much. The snippets I heard, though, sound awesome. Can I?" 

He gestures towards the carpet, telling the truth it is the only place in the room that is not covered in lyrics sheets with tabs written between the lines. The studio that was neat a couple of hours ago looks like a hurricane had hit it, and the hurricane's name is Carrie. 

"Stay, of course, if you want."

Carrie rewinds the recorded part back and presses the play icon. It's not even a demo material, but a twenty-minute-long thinking out loud, too loud with her coughing, and fidgeting, occasional swearing, and stuff like that, but she catches the actual beginning of more or less finished piece she wants to show. Her father listens open-eared, but he literally can't handle the song: he pauses it in the middle of a phrase sniffing to make the tears go away.

"Great song," he says, "but..."

"Too much?"

Carrie bits her lips. She already knows what her father is about to say when she starts to pick up her notes from all the surfaces and arrange them. The writing mood is gone, faded away like a morning fog with that father's but. It hurts even to speak, and she has a music class tomorrow, well, today. 

"Too adult for someone of your age to perform. Save selling soul to the devil for old men, as they can't sing about anything else without sounding silly."

Carrie lets out a dry laugh that turns into coughing. She knows that that's true, that she's an adult trapped in the body of a teenager, forced to grow up faster than everyone around because of all that happened. It was her history, and still, Carrie needs her father's approval of every single decision, and it hurts when he keeps repeating one thing to her with different words. She can't come up on the stage and sing this song or any other of those many songs she has written. Nowadays music industry is a show pleasant to the eyes even more than for ears. She's sweet and cheeky; her outer appearance ain't no rock, so Dirty Candy is her way to the top. It's not like she doesn't like what they are doing together with the girls, but something is missing because no matter how polished they make the songs and the dancing, their best video got three thousand views on YouTube and at least a thousand of them she made herself. 

"And up to me, the cracked voice version sounds better. Save the climbing and put it in the chorus. It will create the tension you have been seeking. I'll dream you; I'll dream you... " He sings in the wrong key, showing steps with his hand, but she gets the idea. "I'll dream you wide awake." 

Carrie nods: that's a great decision. She should try it when she's going to edit the bits into the demo. 

"I wish it was my actual voice... Not the sound of tired to death vocal cords. "

"May I suggest Marlboro Lights? Chainsmokers gain certain voice changes in exchange for healthy lungs and the ability to hold the note." He's only half-joking. Carrie knows that her father will get her a pack and a lighter if she asks. But he won't get her a hotdog or a hamburger due to vegetarianism and other things. That's a mad world. 

"Chainsmoking your love can't be good for my sanity, can't be good for my lungs."

She hums, but the words only make her father frown.

"Sounds good! Write this down."

"It's Jacob Banks, you caveman!"

They both burst into laughter. The rippling laugher was always infectious, and the sheer happiness of its origin gave it too. Music always has been the thing that helped to have the head above the water, no matter what. Their voices were choked with merriment, and her father's lips were still open with laughter when he kissed her brow. 

"Leave everything like it is and go to bed, but set the alarm on late. I want to drive you to school tomorrow."

"Oh, please..."

"Drop you a block away?" he suggests uncertainly. 

"You're the best dad ever!" Carrie imprints a sloppy kiss on his cheek before she leaves the studio.

Mrs. Harrison doesn't even ask her to sing what she has prepared as her homework, as in the morning Carrie sound like sore throat is giving her merry hell, so she doesn't even need to explain why yesterday she didn't show up at all. Splitting headache, grumpy for nothing mood, Julie cannot stop staring at Nick in the music class - Carrie has a million reasons for longing this day to end as soon as possible. But the one that tops the list is the unfinished business - the song she started yesterday. She literally counts minutes before she would be able to come home and finish mixing. 

When the bell finally rings, Carrie rushes outside without even saying goodbye to the girls. The driver her father sends for her is always here in time, and she slips on the backseat.

"Afternoon, Mr. Kolovas-Jones." She smiles. Mr. Jones is an old man, looking very much like a grandfather and acting the same way most of the time.

"Afternoon, miss Carrie. Which way this time?"

"Home." 

Carrie doesn't care about the math homework she's doing right there or her surroundings. She wishes that she could teleport just for not wasting so much time for nothing, except standing in another traffic jam. But there is no magic in the world, so math with her healthy thigh as a table goes first, music - second. And no magic is also about making things work: it takes her days of thoughtful listening and editing and re-recording before Wide Awake becomes a four-minute demo that can be shown to anybody without a sense of remorse. And for all these days, she occupies the studio. Father doesn't say a word, being supportive, but he is really bothered with the smell of vanilla cherry cola, glittery pens, and pink stickers on walls that don't belong to him. It's not funny to spend hours looking for lyrics notebook or for reading glasses.

When she has finally done with her work, Carrie starts cleaning up carefully, feeding all the unnecessary papers to the shredder. She's leaving the final version and a couple of not completely black sheets to put in the folders, as proof that she's the author as if she is part of that world and people know her songs, and singers are fighting for her to write for them.

Never gonna happen, though. _Wide Awake_ won't find a performer because nobody in the industry takes Carrie Wilson seriously. Yes, once her song somehow got trapped in her father's documents and made its way into the recording studio where Chris Cole found it and made it the third single from his band's latest album, but it was an accident. It was an accident, and Carrie's happy that the only four persons in the world who knows who Lara Wilson (that name is published on all documents) is are being said Chris Cole, Trevor Wilson, she, and the lawyer that was making the agreement papers.

Carrie hears this song on the actual radio from time to time, or when Spotify radio drops it, and immediately her heart starts to bleed as if she's stabbed by the knife. "Broken wings" was supposed to be a song to cry to, a sad demure ballad with a rocking electric guitar riff, but they changed the key and added too many instruments, and the song became what it became: another dancey pop-rock trek about love to sing to in karaoke. Oh, Carrie hates that her work was treated that way. But, after all, what can she do? Nothing. Also, the amount of the "pocket money" she got from royalties soothes the itch to slap her father's mate every time he shows up for poker nights.

Carrie used to have no idea what to do with them, as money was the last thing she needed when she put her signature under the printed text. But now, looking at the real estate agent leaflet she found in her belongings, Carrie comes up with an idea of how she can spend them. The text under an ugly photo says three bedrooms, two baths located on Ellis Avenue. Horrible condition - says her own handwriting in the corner. Carrie stands with the grisly photograph in her hands for a long while before she gives in and pulls out her phone.

\- Hey, Siri, search in Google houses for sale in LA. 


End file.
